The bell was announcing the time of prayer the evening after. At its sound every one stopped his work and uncovered. The laborer coming from the fields checked his song; the woman in the streets crossed herself; the man caressed his cock and said the Angelus, that chance might favor him. And yet the curate, to the great scandal of pious old ladies, was running through the street toward the house of the alfÉrez. He dashed up the steps and knocked impatiently. The alfÉrez opened.

“Ah, father, I was just going to see you; your young buck——”

“I’ve something very important——” began the breathless curate.

“I can’t allow the fences to be broken; if he comes back, I shall fire on him.”

“Who knows whether to-morrow you will be alive,” said the curate, going on toward the reception-room.

“What? You think that youngster is going to kill me?”

“SeÑor alfÉrez, the lives of all of us are in danger!”

“What?”

The curate pointed to the door, which the alfÉrez closed in his customary fashion.

“Now, go ahead,” he said calmly.

“Did you see how I ran? When I thus forget myself, there is some grave reason.”

“And this time it is——”

The curate approached him and spoke low.

“Do you—know—of nothing—new?”

The alfÉrez shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you speaking of Elias?”

“No, no! I’m speaking of a great peril!”

“Well, finish then!” cried the exasperated alfÉrez.

The curate lowered his voice mysteriously:

“I have discovered a conspiracy!”

The alfÉrez gave a spring and looked at the curate in stupefaction.

“A terrible conspiracy, well organized, that is to break out to-night!”

The alfÉrez rushed across the room, took down his sabre from the wall, and grasped his revolver.

“Whom shall I arrest?” he cried.

“Be calm! There is plenty of time, thanks to the haste with which I came. At eight o’clock——”

“They shall be shot, all of them!”

“Listen! It is a secret of the confessional, discovered to me by a woman. At eight o’clock they are to surprise the barracks, sack the convent, and assassinate all the Spaniards.”

The alfÉrez stood dumbfounded.

“Be ready for them; ambush your soldiers; send me four guards for the convent! You will earn your promotion to-night! I only ask you to make it known that it was I who warned you.”

“It shall be known, father; it shall be known, and, perhaps, it will bring down a mitre!” replied the alfÉrez, his eyes on the sleeves of his uniform.

While this conversation was in progress, Elias was running toward the house of Ibarra. He entered and was shown to the laboratory, where CrisÓstomo was passing the time until the hour of his appointment with Maria Clara.

“Ah! It is you, Elias?” he said, without noticing the tremor of the helmsman. “See here! I’ve just made a discovery: this piece of bamboo is non-combustible.”

“SeÑor, there is no time to talk of that; take your papers and flee!”

Ibarra looked up amazed, and, seeing the gravity of the helmsman’s face, let fall the piece of bamboo.

“Leave nothing behind that could compromise you, and may an hour from this time find you in a safer place than this!”

“What does all this mean?”

“That there is a conspiracy on foot which will be attributed to you. I have this moment been talking with a man hired to take part in it.”

“Did he tell you who paid him?”

“He said it was you.”

Ibarra stared in stupid amazement.

“SeÑor, you haven’t a moment to lose. The plot is to be carried out to-night.”

CrisÓstomo still gazed at Elias, as if he did not understand.

“I learned of it too late; I don’t know the leaders; I can do nothing. Save yourself, seÑor!”

“Where can I go? I am due now at Captain Tiago’s,” said Ibarra, beginning to come out of his trance.

“To another pueblo, to Manila, anywhere! Destroy your papers! Fly, and await events!”

“And Maria Clara? No! Better die!”

Elias wrung his hands.

“Prepare for the accusation, at all events. Destroy your papers!”

“Aid me then,” said CrisÓstomo, in almost helpless bewilderment. “They are in these cabinets. My father’s letters might compromise me. You will know them by the addresses.” And he tore open one drawer after another. Elias worked to better purpose, choosing here, rejecting there. Suddenly he stopped, his pupils dilated; he turned a paper over and over in his hand, then in a trembling voice he asked:

“Your family knew Don Pedro Eibarramendia?”

“He was my great-grandfather.”

“Your great-grandfather?” repeated Elias, livid.

“Yes,” said Ibarra mechanically, and totally unobservant of Elias. “The name was too long; we cut it.”

“Was he a Basque?” asked Elias slowly.

“Yes; but what ails you?” said CrisÓstomo, looking round and recoiling before the hard face and clenched fists of Elias.

“Do you know who Don Pedro Eibarramendia was? Don Pedro Eibarramendia was the wretch who caused all our misfortune! I have long been searching for his descendants; God has delivered you into my hands! Look at me! Do you think I have suffered? And you live, and you love, and have a fortune and a home; you live, you live!” and, beside himself, he ran toward a collection of arms on the wall. But no sooner had he reached down two poniards than he dropped them, looking blindly at Ibarra, who stood rigid.

“What was I going to do?” he said under his breath, and he fled like a madman.